


Tunnel Vision

by Severina



Category: Live Free or Die Hard (2007)
Genre: Community: smallfandomfest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-24
Updated: 2011-01-24
Packaged: 2017-10-15 01:37:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/155655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Severina/pseuds/Severina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So it’s not McClane, not really.  It’s just the <i>idea</i> of McClane as strong, sturdy, square-jawed superhero.  Right.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tunnel Vision

**Author's Note:**

> Written for LJ's smallfandomfest for the prompt "tunnel"  
> Gapfiller for the tunnel scene in the movie.

“Stay here,” McClane pants out. “Stay right here for a minute.”

Matt blames shock for the fact that he actually does stay put, leaning against the concrete pillar with his eyes closed, trying to get his breathing under control. He pats absently at his pocket for his inhaler, then bangs his head on the pole when he realizes that he left it at home. He can picture it perfectly, sitting on the kitchen counter next to the beat up toaster.

Except _not anymore_ , because now his apartment is a pile of rubble. And both the police and the FBI’s comm channels have been compromised. And he’s on the run from some really bad bad guys who want to kill him and he was just nearly flattened by a flying car and seriously, he has no idea how his life suddenly turned into an action movie. All the components are there: the suave and efficient master of operations, the smooth and sexy female subordinate, the fuckload of dispensable henchmen... yeah, he’s seen those guys on at least a few big screens. Except somehow this script got all messed up, because this time on the good guy’s side there’s just a geek with a slight case of asthma. And one cop.

One broad-shouldered, barrel-chested, steely-eyed supercop.

Who the geek may possibly be falling for. Just a little.

Okay, a lot.

Yeah, that shit is never in the movies he’s seen.

Matt pushes the hair out of his eyes, huffs out a breath. He’s a rational human being, and he can work this out logically. McClane’s basically a walking, talking, breathing action figure, and Matt’s been into comic books and superheroes and everything related to them since before he can even remember -- there’s a photo of him clutching an aquaman figure in his dirty cookie-smeared fist taken when he was less than a year old. It’s not his fault that his parents practically hard-wired that shit into his DNA. So it’s only natural that he’d be attracted to somebody like McClane, a dude who catapults a bad guy out of a third story window via exploding fire extinguisher and uses a fire hydrant to obliterate another. And with all the grabbing and touching and pushing down and laying-on-top-of that McClane’s been doing with him, well, his body’s going to stand up and take notice, right? One part of his body at least.

So it’s not McClane, not really. It’s just the _idea_ of McClane as strong, sturdy, square-jawed superhero. Right.

It makes sense.

Matt really wishes he believed it.

Then he hears the explosion and he is up and running before his never-silent brain even realizes he’s moved, skidding around a crumpled Subaru and its shell-shocked occupant, sneakered feet slapping on the concrete and matching the mantra of _please be okay please don’t be dead please be okay_ that pounds through his head.

* * * 

“Shit,” McClane grouses. “Watch the head, kid.”

“Right. Sure. Sorry,” Matt says. He grimaces at the matching red lacerations that slash McClane’s scalp, then eases his arm more carefully around his shoulder, shifts with his hips and braces himself against the car before tugging gently. McClane leans into him as he hefts himself to his feet, and for a giddy three seconds Matt is enveloped by six feet of muscle, John’s thigh pressed tight to his, John’s big hand slapping onto his shoulder, blunt fingers digging in and squeezing firmly, and when McClane grunts with exertion Matt swears he can feel it all the way to his toes. Then the moment passes and John is letting go of him without a second thought, gazing around them at the chaos in the tunnel. Matt tells himself he’s not disappointed.

Matt blows out a breath, his eyes tracking the path of destruction that John’s have already taken. Trashed vehicles strewn everywhere, people crying or huddled together or scowling over cell phones that won’t pick up a signal. He watches as an older man takes a few shuddering steps before bending at the waist and losing his lunch next to a battered sedan. This part is also never in the movies. “Jesus,” he murmurs.

He looks to McClane, but McClane is already striding away from the car, his shield in his hand and his voice booming in the sudden silence following the explosion. “Everyone,” he says loudly, “please move toward the centre of the road and move quickly to the tunnel exits. Those of you who can assist others, please do so. I’m a police officer, others will be there to help you when you get outside. Quickly, please.”

Whether it’s the sight of the badge or just the fact that somebody who sounds authoritative is telling them what to do, people start obediently stumbling toward the exits. Matt bites back a comment about lemmings when he sees that McClane is still striding confidently in the other direction, occasionally stopping to help someone out of a car, then stooping to pick up a weeping woman’s purse and press it into her arms before putting a surprisingly gentle hand to her arm and urging her on her way. It strikes him suddenly that no matter how many times in the last eight crazy hours that McClane has pulled at him, pushed him down, covered him with own fucking body to save him, he has never been less than careful. And he senses that protecting others isn’t part of what makes McClane a good cop, it’s part of what makes him a good man.

The little crush that’s been developing suddenly revs into third gear.

“Kid!” McClane barks out. “Get your ass in gear!”

Matt jumps. By the time he scurries to catch up McClane is past the majority of the commuters, long strides eating up the pavement, and Matt is a little breathless, but he really hopes he can cover that up by the fact that he was _hurrying_. When he’s still a few steps behind he calls out, “What are we going to do?”

“What the hell do you think? We’re going to get the fuck out of here, that’s what we’re going to do.”

“Well yeah. But…” Matt shrugs, trots a few extra steps to pull alongside the other man and nudges him with his elbow. He peers back toward the sunlit opening to the tunnel, where the remains of what used to be a helicopter and a car before they got McClane’d are still blazing, a cloud of smoke slowly rising to obliterate the square of daylight.

McClane makes a face. “Not through there.”

“Good, because they’re probably waiting for us. So if we can’t—“

“Every tunnel has access points,” McClane interrupts.

“Okay, but how do you—“

“Got stuck in one once,” McClane grunts out without stopping. “Back in ’95.”

Matt remembers 1995 as the year he got grounded for taking apart his first computer so he could see how it worked. In eighth grade. He pushes that thought out of his memory _real_ fast.

“Right,” he says. “Wait, no. By ‘got stuck’ do you mean ‘my car broke down stuck’ or do you mean ‘got chased by bad guys into’… oh, okay,” Matt trails off when McClane just shoots him a look over his shoulder. Because of _course_ it’s going to be bad guys. What was he thinking?

John stops so abruptly that Matt almost walks right into him; he looks up in time to see John point to the grate. “Access points,” McClane says smugly.

Matt points as well. “Mangled hood of a car blocking access point,” he says primly.

“Yeah, smartass, so we’ll move the hood of the…”

“Excuse me, officer,” a woman’s voice says softly, just as aged fingers clutch at his arm. John presses his lips together and turns patiently to the woman, leaving Matt to contemplate the blockage.

The hood belongs to a monster of a car, some kind of gas guzzler that should be banned from the road as far as Matt is concerned, and a quick glance at the surrounding vehicles shows nothing that would match it in the vicinity. He sends out a quick prayer to the universe that the driver of the car is all right, then steps forward and curls his fingers around one of the few smooth edges of the hood. He heaves.

Nothing.

Matt spreads his legs a little further apart, braces himself. He pushes harder.

Absolutely no movement whatsoever.

Matt shakes his hair out of his eyes, scowls down at the misshapen hood. So much for McClane’s “access points.”

Matt gives up on his last futile attempt to dislodge the twisted piece of metal just as McClane finishes up with the woman, and he watches as McClane flexes his hands and cracks his neck before stepping up to the gate. Matt finds himself mesmerized by the way the material of his shirt stretches across his wide chest, clinging to his body when he leans forward. Mesmerized even more by the shirt he wears underneath, which is ridiculous because who even wears undershirts in this day and age, and seriously, how is it even possible that that little strip of white fabric peeking out from beneath McClane’s shirt can be so fucking sexy? Not even counting the fact that McClane is old enough to be his father, cripes, and he’s covered with dirt and grime and blood and jeeeeeeeeesus this should not be as hot as it is.

He’s wondering if maybe the explosion in his apartment knocked a screw loose somewhere when John snaps his fingers in front of his face.

“Kid,” McClane says. “You with me?”

Matt blinks. McClane’s wearing that _smirk_ now, the one that implies he knows something Matt doesn’t. Matt only hopes he wasn’t actually drooling.

“Oh,” he says, putting out a restraining hand when McClane just shakes his head at the apparently dazed look in his eyes and steps up to the hood, wrapping his fingers around a section of slick metal. “No, McClane, it’s totally stuck, it’s like, jammed in there man, there no way we can get that out, you can’t… oh. You’re just… wow, so you can move that, huh? That’s really… impressive, McClane.”

“Jesus, kid,” McClane grunts out as the hood clatters to the side, “haven’t you ever lifted weights? Have you ever _seen_ a barbell?”

“I’ve seen one, sure. There’s lots of pictures of them on the ‘net. You know, the world wide web? You probably haven’t heard of that, though, it became available to the masses after 1978.”

“Funny,” McClane deadpans. He pushes open the gate, leads them through a short passage to a second gate through which Matt can see a sliver of glorious sunshine. It’s not until they’re actually out into the light that he sees just how much of a beating McClane has taken, but McClane shrugs off his suggestion of a hospital.

“I’m not a doctor, but…” Matt tries again, “but you look like you’re hurt.”

“Sexy, right?”

Fuck YES.

“No!” Matt says quickly. And when McClane hesitates in stepping over the loose rock, glances over his shoulder and raises a sceptical eyebrow, Matt ducks his head and lets his hair hide his eyes until McClane resumes their forward progress.

He’s not a supercop. Not a walking, talking action figure come to life. He’s just a cop. Not a superhero, just a guy who gets hurt and bleeds and struggles like everybody else. Matt’s well aware the McClane could have dumped him with Bowman, dusted his hands and walked away, hacker delivered, job done, but he didn’t. He stuck with him, kept him safe even when that wasn’t his job anymore. Even when there’s no superstrength or magic powers to keep _himself_ safe.

Matt shuffles along behind McClane, and thinks that he’s probably halfway to falling in love.


End file.
